


Heartbeat

by coffeecakelatte



Category: Pet Shop Boys
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Heart (Music Video), Diary/Journal, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29408937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeecakelatte/pseuds/coffeecakelatte
Summary: In the spring of 1927, Chris is hired by the Tennant family to drive their new motor-car. The parents are friendly enough, but the same can't be said of their son Neil, a surly, standoffish character who did not want a vehicle to begin with. Over the months, they form a sort of bond, and Chris finds himself feeling things he's never felt before. But are these feelings returned? And what happens to their friendship when wedding bells begin to chime?Epistolary fic, told in journal entries from the two characters. Set in the universe of the music video for "Heart".
Relationships: Chris Lowe/Neil Tennant
Comments: 22
Kudos: 20





	1. May 1927

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! I've always felt like the "Heart" video had its own backstory that was just begging to be told. Why is Neil getting married, and what's the story behind him and his girlfriend? Has Chris always been his chauffeur? Where does the vampire come from? Why does Chris look so happy when the vampire strikes? 
> 
> And Chris has got on one of those cool chauffeur uniforms from the early 20th century, and I've read _Maurice_ , and, well, the rest is history. Actually, I must mention that _The Color Purple_ was another big influence on this.
> 
> Chapters will be divided chronologically, mostly by months (or whatever time period makes up approx. 3k words). Some aspects of their lives are true to real life, but this is more of an AU than I've ever done. I'm a bit nervous about this fic, so I greatly appreciate any kind of encouragement. 
> 
> A giant thank you to [jaxx69](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaxx69/pseuds/jaxx69) for beta-ing this. I couldn't ask for a better beta. 💚💜💚💜💚💜💚💜💚💜

May 6, 1927

I’VE GOT A JOB! Hallelujah! Lucky me, I have been Officially Situated. Thank the heavens, thank the stars above me, thank the Milky Way, I’ll not be an invalid any longer. Finally, finally, this stupid driver’s licence has paid off. Up until now I’ve not touched it, despite trying desperately to get hired as a chauffeur. How many letters did I send off? Must’ve been in the hundreds. In the meantime, I’ve been doing odd jobs—dishwashing, gardening, etc.—just to pass the time, and I was beginning to think this would be my life now. That was a very long meantime. Nearly a year, and I thought I’d wasted my money. But no more! Today I am a pillar of society. And I’ve bought myself this shiny new journal to celebrate.

Of course I’ve no idea what the conditions will be like, nor what kind of car I’ll be driving (the ad simply said a private car, as though that narrows it down), but it did ask that I be single. Easy. I don’t expect to ever marry, nor to fall in love. I’m just not swayed that way, I s’pose.

Anyway, the job’s up in the North East, so I’m due to move there in a few weeks. My mum’s mate lives up there and he’s found me lodgings with a group of other bachelors. It’s all happening so fast, I can’t believe it. I’m dead excited. It’ll be nice to get a change of scenery. I’ve grown tired of boring old Blackpool. Fish and chips for tea every bloody day and the same people who sound just like me. I’m looking forward to a change. I’ve only ever met a couple of people from around there, at uni. A brother and sister. They were the first mates I made there, in fact. And I’m glad I did as I would have gone doolally without ‘em. My first year was ridiculous. All those long hours drawing diagrams of old buildings and trying to prove why a box was not a box, and barely a moment’s pleasure. 

Now, it’s sort of like that—brand new career, brand new city. Hopefully more opportunities for leisure, though. I wonder if there are any good pubs up there? Or maybe a football club! Bet they’re not a patch on Blackpool though. I’m taking all my old football gear with me. I HAVE to. 

Newcastle, here I come!

May 7, 1927

Ugh. I’ve needed you, diary.

Before I begin, I must set the scene. Picture us at the family table, if you will. We’re all tucking into a lovely pork roast, and then Dad slides it into the conversation, as if he thinks I won’t notice: “we’ve bought a motor-car.” My ears perk up in alarm. But that’s not even the worst part. Presently he adds, “For you, Neil. And it comes with your own chauffeur. And lessons!”

For ME??? I do not want, nor need, a motor-car. I get around just fine by tram, bike, or my own two trusty feet. I have made this abundantly clear on several occasions. Yet my family insists on foisting this needless expense onto me and claiming it’s for my own good. For theirs, maybe. I hate motor-cars, and I’m not looking forward to having to play nice with the driver. I’m sure he’ll be a fine fellow, but will I? Can I hold my nose and act civil? Or will this end up like the last time, with the cat, when I got called an ungrateful bastard for not jumping with joy when it jumped in my lap?

And what use could we POSSIBLY have for a chauffeur? As I’ve mentioned above, I avail myself of other options, and we rarely go to out-of-the-way events that require a motor vehicle. I should think the poor lad will be awfully bored after a while. No. It just doesn’t make sense.

But then, this is always what happens. My family, kind and decent people that they are, can never resist meddling in my personal affairs. They like to Suggest things to me, with a capital S. “Neil, why don’t you go to this dance?” “Neil darling, when’s the last time you went to the social club at St. Ninian’s?” “Neil dear, come with me to Elizabeth’s house. She’s got a beautiful daughter…” And so on. Now that I think of it, most of the meddling has had to do with my love life, which has been an unmitigated disaster from start to finish. Half the time I can’t even work up the nerve to ask a girl to dance, let alone get any further, yet my family insists that love is just round the corner. I’m fairly certain I want what they want: a wife, a house, a family, a good career. I’ve got the last part down at least. Currently I’m working in an advertising agency as a clerk, and while thus far I have been entrusted solely with typing duties, I have faith that they will put my degree to good use soon. In the meantime, they treat me well and rarely require me to stay late, allowing me to maintain my pristine sleep schedule (early to bed, early to rise, etc. etc). So that part I’m pleased with. It’s sorted.

I wish I could say the same about the motor-car, unfortunately. Might it not be as bad as I imagine? Who knows. Maybe when the poor lad shows up (at the end of the month), he’ll be as baffled as I am.

May 29, 1927

Met my new employers today: the Tennants. Interesting bunch. Loads of servants, but I only counted three members of the family proper: the man of the house, the lady, and the son, who I’m told I’ll be doing most of the driving for. His parents were nice enough, stuffing me full of sticky toffee pudding, but him? Forget it. He didn’t want anything to do with me. He gave me the weakest handshake I’ve ever felt, then made a beeline for the other side of the car, opened the door himself, huddled into the seat and sat there glaring at his parents like this whole thing was an obligation. And to each of my questions he gave quick, one-word answers, not even looking at me. Not the most promising of beginnings.

We drove around the property so that I could get a lay of the premises and become acquainted with the vehicle (a Daimler Landaulette, an absolute cinch to drive), and finally he opened up a little. Not a lot. He said he’s working in an ad office, trying to move up in the company. What he really wants is to be a writer. Didn’t ask anything about me, though, which is a bit disappointing. And then he went all quiet again, leaving me feeling awkward and uncomfortable. It’s a shame, as I think we could have been good friends had we met somewhere else, like at uni. He’s clearly intelligent and well-spoken and we’d’ve got on if we were thrown into the same class or something. But then, he IS my employer. Maybe it’s good we don’t become best mates.

What else is there…Oh yeah! My new digs! My bedroom’s pretty nice—bigger than the one I’ve got at home, in fact. They gave me the master suite and it feels enormous! I could’ve brought a load more stuff with me rather than leaving it all at home. And it looks out on a big courtyard with all these tall, skinny trees. Reminds me of the Tennants’ son. He’s tall too, and his hat makes him look even taller. And may I just say, he’s got the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a man. EVER. I couldn’t stop looking at them. Hell, I don’t think I’ve seen ‘em any longer on a girl. Yeah, there is something a bit girlie about him. Well, a few somethings, actually. His voice (which is quite posh with just a hint of Geordie), his eyes, the way he holds his wrists. He’s nothing like my flatmates, rough hooligan types who stomp about in thick workboots and never wash up. They’ve already dragged me down the pub a few times to play darts, something they’re mad about. I don't understand the appeal. You throw a projectile at a wall, and most of the time, you miss. Whoopee. I prefer dominoes, myself...

May 29, 1927

Well, the nightmare came true today, folks. We got The Dreaded Motor-Car.

I suppose it’s not the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. There’s a proper roof on this one (unlike my mum’s friend’s car, whose open design seems to be just asking for a thunderstorm) and it’s in blue, my favourite colour. I was afraid the inside would be a mess, but it was sparkling clean. I still don’t know if it’s meant to be mine or it’s his. Regardless, I’m glad it was so tidy inside. I hate it when things are needlessly dirty. If I’m to get a useless, hulking hunk of moving metal, the least it can do is not be messy.

About the driver—Lowe was his name, I think. (That’ll make it rather awkward to greet him, won’t it? “Hello, Lowe?”) He was here at nine this morning, ringing our doorbell incessantly until the butler let him in. When I heard his voice, a deep feeling of foreboding struck me. This was him. The man who’d be robbing me of my transportational autonomy and forcing me to alter my life forever. I tried to bury myself in my book, but I could hear him downstairs with my parents, chattering away. The sound of silverware clinking and uproarious laughter drifted into my room. No conversation could be THAT funny, and with someone they had just met…? I decided that I would hate him. It was for the benefit of my family. If my parents immediately loved him and I hated him, then there would be the appropriate amount of neutrality that best befits a relationship between employer and employee.

That mood carried over into when we met, face to face. I began with his uniform. He insisted on dressing like a soldier, in a double-breasted coat, breeches, and boots, all topped off with a stupid little cap. I must admit that he did not look horrible in it, but that was only because of his youth. He was very fresh-faced, with an obscenely perfect smile like those of American actors—all the teeth in a straight row, uniform and white. At once I realised that envy could fuel my hatred, and gratefully I tapped upon this, envying how, well, not-horrible he managed to look. I instantly found another thing to envy when I examined the vehicle: his freedom. With his driver’s licence, he was free to come and go as he pleased, not beholden to his family’s whims. (And on that note, I was told he’d be living off-site, not with us as the others do. He’ll be taking the tram to get here, which I find funny, in a way. A man hired for his driving, and yet he gets around like the rest of us.)

After I shook his hand, I got in, wishing I could whisper to time like in the Alice books. If only the next hour could go by in the blink of an eye! Then he’d be driving away (sans moi, of course) and I’d be back up in my room, comfortable and at peace, a million books on my bed.

But alas, such was not meant to be. I lived in the real world, not one of fantasy, and I needed to experience this hour cooped up in a motor-car. Dreadfully noisy thing that it was—I could barely hear his questions over the din. He wanted to know more about me. What was there to tell? I’d studied journalism and history at university. I was working as a typist, but had lofty goals of becoming a great writer someday. I had three siblings, and I was the last among them to still be living with my family, as they’d all moved out and begun families of their own. (This last part I omitted from my autobiography.) Bitterness seeped through me, turning me sullen and dull, and by the time we were done, I well and truly loathed him.

I am not looking forward to tomorrow.

May 30, 1927

First day at the job! I’m knackered. Did you know there are two seven o’clocks in a day? I didn’t. But that’s when they asked me to show up. SEVEN AM. Could be worse, I guess. Actually, today was great. I drove the father to his job (he teaches at Rutherford College—lucky me, I knew where that was without having to check a map) and when I got back, it was time to bring the son to his. Thankfully, Mr. Tennant was in a better mood today. Course, anything would be an improvement over yesterday, but today he really did seem more cheerful. He even pointed out a few landmarks to me on the way, including the Castle that gave Newcastle its name! He knew loads about it, including when it was built, who it was built by, and all the uses it’d had over the centuries. At one point it was a prison! That’s all I remember, but he went on about it for ages. He sounded like an encyclopedia. That man has got a wicked brain on him.

He’s well into old buildings, is Mr. Tennant. Actually, there’s something we’ve got in common, albeit for different reasons. He goes in for the history side; I’m more enthusiastic about the architecture. Though I didn’t get to see much, really—I was going pretty fast, so it passed by me in this big grey stone blur. It’s times like those I envy him. He gets to see these things and chatter on about them, while I’m stuck paying attention to the road. Well, now I know where it is, maybe I can pay a visit this weekend.

After I dropped off Mr. Tennant, I was given a change of clothes and told I’d be working in the garden today, as it was such a lovely day. (Perhaps that’s why Mr. Tennant was in high spirits.) They’ve got an amazing piece of technology: an Atco motor lawn-mower. I’ve seen ‘em in the paper, but this was my first time getting to use one, and rather than show me how it worked, they gave me the booklet and told me to learn myself. Though it took me some time to get the hang of it, I found I really rather liked using the contraption. It works GREAT! So much better than a horse or, God forbid, a scythe. They told me there was no rush, as they don’t get many visitors, so I went quite slowly and got the chance to truly see how big the property was. In a car, distances don’t seem as big as you’re covering them so quickly, but on foot I realised that this was a massive estate. One thing I didn’t notice—I’m not sure how I missed this—was their gazebo. It’s tucked away at the back of the property, and I was surprised to discover it. The structure was fairly small, with a domed roof and stained-glass windows, and had so many sides that it looked circular at first. I took my afternoon break there, watching the water-lilies floating on the nearby pond. Beautiful. Idyllic. Sounds like something from a novel, doesn’t it?

Before I knew it, it was five PM, time to get back to my regular duties. I did my rounds at Rutherford, then at the ad office. All the while I had to bite my lip, so as not to gush about the day. Mr. Tennant wouldn’t want to hear about that sort of stuff, not from his servant, and not when he still merely tolerates me. But he did nod at me and say ‘thanks’ when I dropped him off. Which was much better than yesterday, when he tore out of the vehicle as fast as his legs could take him. Chauffeuring Mr. Tennant was the only part I’d been worrying about, and it wasn’t so bad, in the end.

I am bone-tired, though. I’ve been on the dole for so long that I’ve forgotten what a full day of work is like. And that wasn’t even strenuous work! How am I going to make it through the rest of the week?


	2. June 12-22, 1927

Sunday, June 12, 1927

Two full weeks have passed since my family has begun subjecting me to Motor Torture (as that is what I have vowed to call this horrific experiment) and I’m afraid to say that my mission to hate the chauffeur is failing miserably. It is perhaps due to the way my mind works. It has always been this way. I can hate objects and concepts with a fiery passion, but I cannot hate any one person for long. And Lowe is proving to be very difficult to despise.

Allow me to rewind a bit. During the first few days of our acquaintanceship, I kept an air of icy silence around him, like the fog that surrounds our property. I did not want to like him. To me, he represented all that was wrong with my family, with their constant impositions and presumptions. By maintaining this silence around him, I could control at least one aspect of my existence. But on Friday, I faltered. He made a crack about the weather and I, groggy and caught off guard, returned his serve. This “cleared the fog”, as it were, and our subsequent conversation was surprisingly pleasant. Our talk on the way back home was even better. And over the coming drives, I was able to ascertain his character. I can tell very quickly whether or not someone’s a good person, and he is undoubtedly good. He’s courteous, witty, and, to my surprise, intelligent. In fact, just the other day I came back to the motor-car, only to find him reading a book on Russian architecture. Seemed a rather elevated subject for a man like him; unfortunately, I blurted this out before thinking. Thankfully, he laughed, and proceeded to educate me on the subject. Me! The man who thought he knew everything! As it turns out, I know very little about architecture, as evidenced by our discussion on the ride home. The sum total of my knowledge came from the Roman history courses I took at Newcastle, and even then, I could only identify the types of columns. By contrast, Lowe seems to know enough to write an encyclopedia. Our conversation that day entertained me greatly, and—dare I say it?—it excited me.

There are benefits from a purely practical perspective, too. I get picked up and dropped off right at my door, ensuring that the weather need never affect my appearance. I can also sleep in more now, and I’ve dispensed entirely with the 8 o’clock train, which is packed with noisy, jittery people, yammering away with their cigarettes dangling from their mouths.

Actually, I don't recall ever having seen Lowe smoke, and that may be the most unusual thing about him. I suppose he doesn't. Me, I happen to partake in the occasional cigarette from time to time, as do we all, but I may not do so for long. I am finding myself strangely inspired. After commuting with him for a few weeks, I have begun to notice how much lighter the air is in the car, how good and clean it smells. He keeps himself very neat, too. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle on his uniform, and always a warm smile to greet me. I do not know if this is merely an act designed to put me at ease and make me feel more convivial toward him, or if it is genuinely how he feels when he sees me. Either way, I appreciate it. More than I let on.

Quite apart from all that, I’ve become an even better typist in the last few weeks. I’m now capable of completing my work in half the time it used to take, and what’s more, they’ve noticed. One of the older ladies (yes, there are ladies working at this organisation!) has offered to show me how to do some of the printing tomorrow. I’m looking forward to telling ~~Lowe~~ my parents about it. Why did I write Lowe? …odd.

Wednesday, June 15, 1927

I've got a front-page headline for today. Look:

LOCAL CHAUFFEUR ASKED BY HIS EMPLOYER ABOUT HIMSELF, NEARLY PASSES OUT FROM SHOCK

This morning, I was driving Mr. Tennant to his office. I’m not sure why the traffic was so light, but it was, and we arrived much sooner than usual—his work began at nine, my wrist-watch read eight thirty. Before, we’d been talking as fast as the motor-car could take us, but as soon as the car came to a halt, so did the conversation. There was an awkward silence. Then he turned to me and asked, “So, have you always been a chauffeur?”

No, actually. I hadn’t. For four long years I’d studied at Liverpool, hoping to get my Bachelor of Architecture. In my fifth year, all was going well, and then my mother fell ill two weeks into the semester. I had to move back home and take care of her for a few months. Well, that threw a spanner in the works. By the time she was well again, my head was in a completely different state. Having spent all that time at home, and finding that I PREFERRED it to my studies, made me realise just how unhappy I was. The thought of re-doing that one last year filled me with dread. I was sick of spending long days in the classroom, learning about theories that I’d never be able to use in the real world, or even pull out at a party to impress someone. (Philosophy and psychology have got a certain cocktail appeal, but there’s nothing titillating about The Tall Office Building, Artistically Considered.) And as much as buildings fascinated me, talking and writing about them bored me to tears. Nor did I like the idea of “working my way up”, as they always say, in some dingy little office, to the point where I could finally design my own dwellings.

So instead, I stayed home and enrolled in motor school.

That wasn’t the best choice either, looking back on it. While I liked motor school well enough—in fact, I loved getting to work with my hands and take care of a vehicle—it didn’t pay off the way they said it would, in immediate returns. You write to the first person, and he hires you on the spot! No. It took me months to find anyone willing to give me a second glance. I was too young. Too old. Not enough experience. Enough experience, but not with the right motor-car. Not tall enough (?!). Unmarried and unlikely to do so. I was equally picky, too. I wanted to stay in the North, reasonably close to my family. I didn’t want to drive for any workplace where I’d come home smelling of grease or fish and chips (a real concern in my hometown). But eventually, after waiting and waiting and taking odd jobs to pass the time, I learned a valuable lesson: the perfect opportunity would never come. I’d have to settle for imperfection. Or really, whoever wrote me first. Which was how I wound up in the House of Tennant, and in that very fine motor-car.

All this I explained in a great gush of words to him, while keeping a steady eye on my watch. I’m sure I spoke too much. He was nodding the whole time, but then he gave me a queer look as he got out of the vehicle. As if to say, “why the monologue? You’re only my employee.” Which I am. It’s true we talk more often than we did at the beginning, and I probably talk to him more than anyone else, even the boarders, but that doesn’t mean anything. We’re in the same motor-car. What else is there to do, if not fill the space with words?

But I do still want to become his friend.

Thursday, June 16, 1927

Yesterday, Lowe spoke more to me than he’s ever done. To be honest, I don’t remember it all—something about a half-finished bachelor's degree abandoned for a career in motoring—but what I do remember is his voice. I don’t know why I never noticed it before. Maybe because he’s never said so much in one go. At any rate, there’s this lovely lilt to it, one that builds over the course of several sentences. My voice lies flat like a still pond; his is curved, propulsive, like a burbling creek. I found myself hypnotised by his words, and I felt like I was truly seeing him for the first time. The him beyond “morning, Mr. Tennant” or “beautiful day, eh?” Small-talk. Exceedingly small, in the scope of his soliloquy.

By the time he was done—I remember this part very well—he looked at his watch, said “it’s five minutes to nine” and waved me off. But I was so entranced that, even as I got out, I wasn’t really looking where I was going. I was looking at him. The soft, dark timbre of his words had sunk into me. I wanted to know more, and to hear him talk at length again. It’s safe to say that I’ve abandoned my quest to despise him. No more putting the “Lowe” in “loathe” for me.

From there, the day took an interesting turn. Initially I assumed it was about to nosedive when our head printer Trevor asked me if I was still single, and I, to my irritation, had to answer ‘yes’. However, not one minute later, he’d extended a tempting offer: joining him on his hols in Blackpool in a couple weeks. Me, him, his wife Linda…and his wife’s best friend, Marian. It appears she’s been searching for a husband for a long time, someone to settle down with, and she discussed it with Trevor. Apparently, I came highly recommended as an eligible bachelor. She’s a teacher, enjoys good books and long morning walks (things I happen to like as well), and is kind to children and animals. As regards her appearance, Trevor tells me she is small, fair and blond, with lips so naturally red they need no lipstick. Sigh. She sounds like a dream! Furthermore, she comes from a prestigious family - her dad’s a lawyer from a long line of legal men, and they live on a large estate south of Gateshead. Oh, blast! I forgot to ask if she was a Catholic. Much as I hate to admit any part of my family’s judgment affecting my own, they would not look kindly upon my bunking off to Blackpool to keep company with a Protestant girl.

Wait a minute. Blackpool. Isn’t that where Lowe said he went to take care of his mum? Oh, yes—it’s all coming back to me now! He didn’t fail his degree out of laziness, he had to cut it short because his mum had come down with pneumonia? Hmm. Turns out I retained more than the colour of his words; I retained the shape, too.

The trip will be good, I think. What better setting for romance to bloom than an Elysian seaside town? I’ve never been to Blackpool, though I've heard a lot about it. It’s one of those seaside towns where life is always a party, there are throngs of excited people swarming about, and the worst thing you’ve got to worry about is your suntan turning into a burn. (Not something I personally fret over. Only once have I managed to go bronze; most of the time I skip that step entirely and char to a crisp.) I can’t deny that the thought is appealing. I do work a lot, and rarely take any time off for myself. A holiday would be splendid. And strolling down the promenade with a pretty girl on my arm, well, that’ll be the cherry on top, eh? I’m already dreaming of it…

Sunday, June 19, 1927

Mr. Tennant's going to Blackpool. For a week's holiday. And I haven’t a clue how to feel about it.

It’s odd to think he’ll be visiting the place where I grew up. I know all there is to know about Blackpool, where you can find the finest buildings and the freshest fish and chips. If I were going with him, I’d show him everywhere: Blackpool Tower (which could hold its own with the Eiffel any day of the week), the mind-bogglingly enormous Central Gallery, and the Alhambra Palace, which has got something really brilliant: a moving staircase. You get on the first step and it lifts you up, without you having to do a single thing. He’d love it, I’m sure. But I bet all they’ll do is go swimming, visit Pleasure Beach, stroll down the promenade. You know, the regular tourist things that everyone does. I could show him a much better time.

There’s a girl going with him, too. Let it not be forgotten, Mr. Tennant Has Found a Girl. She’s beautiful. Kind. Caring and selfless. Speaks three languages, working on a fourth. Loves children and wants to start a family. And Catholic, as he found out yesterday. In short, the perfect girl. He’s besotted, and it’s been hard trying to get him on another topic. Did I mention he’s never even met her?

I don’t know why intelligent, sensible men are so easily swayed by a lass. It has always baffled me. But then, maybe I’m the baffling one; I’ve never been swayed by what they call “the fairer sex”. And believe me, I’ve tried. It’s what you’re supposed to do, right? It’s what my parents wanted of me, at any rate, and all my friends were getting married, one by one. So, whenever I’d come back home from uni, I’d go to these dances at the Tower Ballroom with some of my single chums. I got off with a few girls—not many, maybe three or four over the course of all those summers. I could’ve easily got off with more, if I felt any sort of spark. There were plenty of girls who wanted to dance with me. As it was, I was trying my best with the ones I thought were the prettiest, so I should reasonably have felt something - yet I felt nothing when they touched my hand or when I touched theirs. They all looked the same to me, in these long, straight gowns that covered up their figures so even if I DID want to guess what they looked like underneath, I couldn’t. And always with the exact same haircut: the “bob”, plastered to their heads, with a few strands curled if they’re daring. Joy.

I thought perhaps it was just Blackpool that was like this, but no, it’s everywhere. The girls in Newcastle are identical. A few weeks ago I went to the monkey parade on Benton, and there I saw the same boring dresses, the same boring haircuts, the same red lips and rouge. It gets old after a while, chatting up a girl, especially if you can’t be bothered to find any of them appealing.

This may sound queer, but I find Mr. Tennant more appealing than any of them. He’s great company, and his fashions are much better. Usually he’s got on a flannel suit, although recently he’s taken to corduroy. No matter the fabric, though, his suits always FIT. They show off his broad, straight shoulders, which I envy, and his height. I think I’ve mentioned he was tall—well, one day we stood next to each other, and he’s actually not much taller than me. Only a few inches. But whenever I see him striding out of the building, I think he’s a six-footer. It’s just the way his body’s made. Anyway, he’s got style, too. He likes to stand out. His suits are pretty typical, but underneath he often wears a bright, patterned suitjacket. It’s been fun watching him step out of the car every day, see what he’s wearing. “ I make a mental note of it: “Navy, pink polka dots.” “Orange stripe.” “Purple paisley.”

I’m going to miss that little routine of ours. Oh, who am I kidding - I’m going to miss everything. Even the days when he’s grumpy and barely says two words to me. I just feel lucky to have met him.

Is it bad if I hope he doesn’t get TOO close with that girl?

Wednesday, June 22, 1927

Oh hell, I’ve put my foot in it now.

In my defence, ever since Friday it’s been nothing but Marian this, Marian that. Marian’s the girl he’s going to Blackpool with. I wouldn’t have minded so much if it were mere gushing, I could have tuned it out and said “mm-hmm, mm-hmm, paying attention to the road”, but what really got my dander up was being misled. There were times, quite a few in fact, when it seemed he actually wanted my opinion on something—only for it to be all about Marian again.

It was today that did it. We’d arrived early at his workplace again, and the hush came over us. The last time this happened, he’d asked about me, I’d gone off on a natter, and he seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. Well, today he said, “Hey, you’re from Blackpool, right? Where would you recommend we go?” God, I was excited. I was starting to tell him all about Alhambra when he cut in: “No, no, not just places YOU like. For Marian and me. Date ideas.” He said it in this really irksome way that implied I was an idiot for not even thinking about that.

And before I could help it, I’d muttered, “not again.”

Try to get out of that one! But it was like quicksand—the more I struggled, the further I sank. All the humour drained out of his face, and he was giving me this squinting look, a sign of warning which should have been enough to stop me. He demanded to know “what again”. I said “her”. “Marian?” “Yeah.” Then he said something that really rankled me: “Oh, I wasn’t aware my chauffeur had opinions on what I should discuss in the vehicle. Pray tell, what do you think is an appropriate topic of conversation?” That comment got under my skin, and soon I was plunging into the sand with both feet: “How do you know what she’d like? You don’t even know her! You’re just spinning these fantasies about her, and for all you know, she could bore you to death! Can’t we talk about something else, for”—and then I caught myself before I could say anything further.

That wouldn’t have helped, though. It was already too late. By then his glare was murderous. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, then got out of the passenger’s seat and barreled into the building like a small tornado.

For the first time since the beginning, we didn’t speak on the ride home. I was tongue-tied, and he was fuming. Despite the summer heat, the atmosphere in the motor-car was icy, and chills kept running over my skin.

I’m feeling so low now. My mates are out for drinks, and it’s finally quiet in this poky, ugly little flat, so I could get a good night’s sleep for once—and here I am, at one AM, sleepless and hurting. I hate how easily I lost my temper. It’s one of my worst qualities, and now he’s been subject to it. I’d like to apologise to him tomorrow, but should I? Would it help? Or would an apology make things worse? He was right. I am his chauffeur, not his friend. My job is to take him wherever he needs to go, listen quietly and patiently to his chatter, and say “yes” at the right times. Greet him kindly, nod and smile. And let go of the idea that I can be more than a servant to him. He doesn’t truly want to hear about me, that much is clear. It’s time I accepted that.

Wednesday, June 22, 1927

You know, I’ve never understood the purpose of paper handkerchiefs. I rarely catch colds - I’ve not had one in years - and if I’ve a spot of something on my face, I can dab it away with my favourite silk handkerchief or towel. Yet my parents, keen trend-hoppers they are, put a box of them at my bedside recently, and when I saw it I was mystified. What are they for?

Well, diary, they’re perfect for cleaning up tears.

I’m not even sure why I’m crying. This isn’t the sort of situation that merits such moodiness. Looking back on it objectively, it was just a disagreement with one of the staff; it should not have been worth more than a minute of bother. And to my credit, I didn’t make it worse; I picked myself up and headed right into my office without another word. The words “you’re fired” were on the tip of my tongue, I swear they were. It’s a wonder I didn’t say them. I was positively livid. I still am, but now my anger has morphed into a curious sort of despair, for reasons still unclear.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It was his fault. He started it. He was the one who exploded at me out of nowhere, ruining my day, for objecting to a date idea that any reasonable person could tell was ludicrous. And he really should have known that I was thinking about dates in the first place. Not trivial, piddly excursions for boys like travelling up a moving staircase, but activities appropriate for a couple. For Marian and me. And for him to be so cold about her like that, telling me she could “bore me to death”—how dare he! Where does he get off? He’s bitter and spiteful, I’m sure. Has he ever had a sweetheart? Has he ever fallen in love? I bet he’s never tasted the word. Then again, what do I care? He’s just my driver. He’s not the one I’ll be spending the rest of my life with; Marian is. As a matter of fact, I DO know her, I HAVE met her, and she’s just as charming and delightful in person as she was made out to be. So there, Lowe. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

I’m going to enjoy this trip twice as much because of him. He’s spiteful? Fine, I’ll spite him in return. Picture it: Marian and me, she in her loveliest day dress, me in my new white linen suit, navy tie, and boater hat. All is calm. We are thoroughly enamoured with one another, breathing in the fresh sea air and glad to be alive. I come home, tell my family I’ve finally found the one. The perfect girl. Then we’ll marry, and Lowe will be nowt but a distant memory.

Lowe. His name suits him. He is low of character, temper, and wit. The intelligence I thought I saw in him was an illusion; he’s no cleverer than your average bar-dwelling lout. I hate him. There, I’ve said it. I hate him and his stupid smile, and I abhor the thought of seeing him again this week.

All right, that’s enough. Stop that, Tennant. Pull yourself together and look to the future. Soon you will be on a blissful vacation with the woman you love, and you’ll need not spare a single thought on that miserable excuse for a chauffeur.


End file.
